Finals and faith

Students do funny things when finals week is here. Suddenly you will find people quizzing each other in bathrooms, the hallway, studios, and in the computer lab. Students will send you emails at three o'clock in the morning, leave endless messages with questions on your voicemail, ask about review sessions and old quizzes and tests, and spend every waking moment in our building. In all honesty, my students here are not that much different from my students back in Europe, or students in Texas or up in New England. Everyone is nervous, stressed out, tired, and wants to do well. And go home. With honor, preferably.

But there is one thing that is unbelievably, vastly, and above all, unexpectedly different from anywhere else I have taught or been a student: religion. Our students will not only spend hours in the hallway studying, the majority will also spend at least a few moments before every final in prayer. Yes, in prayer. Sometimes they will even pray out loud. Or sing a little. And no, we are not a baptist/mennonite/quaker/mormon college. We are a simple public school, which is thus not supposed to have any religious affilitation whatsoever. Supposed, yes. And I suppose if you don't consider all the times the president or provost opens an official meetig with a prayer, or those occasions when we are reminded that we should tell our students to take their concerns to God, or all the towel and basin displays we have in every building, then yes, our school has no religious affiliation at all.

And it's not just prayer. Today during one of my finals, one of my students called out; "Jesus!", to which I responded, "He's not here right now, but maybe I can help you."
All my students were in uproar. Jesus was there, in spirit, and I had better believe it, because they needed him. There was, and I quote, not going to be any devilworshipping while they were doing their final. No sir. And Amen to that. Alrighty then.
And when I walked into the second final of the day, the following message had been scrawled on the whiteboard:
"Thank you Jesus for His son. Jesus, have mercy on us! Philosophy and ethics, 2009"
I looked at the board, and said something noncommittal, to which my students responded that they were really serious, and I had better not jinx them. My finals are apparently so hard, only God can help them through.

Now let me just come out of the closet here and tell you all that I am a Christian too. A tree-hugging, liberal, hippie Christian, but a Christian nonetheless. I go to church every week, and even teach Awana. But even for me, this really raises my eyebrows. What are my students going to do if they ever have to work for an atheist/Muslim/Jewish/Mormon/Wiccan boss? One who doesn't appreciate such outbursts of faith? Tell him he is going to hell? That will go over really well, I'm sure.

Well, I guess I better grade my finals. See if God really shined down on my students today, or if they just didn't study enough.

Separation Anxiety

For the first time in over a year, husband-dear and I got to enjoy a weekend away together. No kids, no dog, no chores, nothing. Just him, me, and a cabin in Ft. Yago national park. Oh yes, and a mountainbike race on Sunday. And a crate full of work for me. But other than that, it was bliss. There was a lake behind our cabin, woods all around it, and we were only half an hour away from the wonderfully quirky college town of Athens and one hour from the famous Stone Mountain. It was absolutely delightful to only do things we really wanted to (and work, of course, although that was definitely less delightful). I had forgotten how much time you can spend on a weekend running errands, cleaning the house, and taking care of your dependents. Sure, being away for a weekend means the house isn't clean, the laundry didn't get done, and there are only enough groceries to last us until Tuesday, but not having to deal with a hyperactive dog at 6:30 in the morning, make macaroni and cheese at least once, or wonder why things get dusty so quickly was really worth it.

But having any sort of parental responsibility also means that you spend some time of your "quiet weekend away" wondering if all the family members you didn't take along are doing alright. Funnily enough, it wasn't the kids I was worried about, but our wonderful canine child, Zoe. Zoe had never boarded until this weekend, and we were a little worried whether or not she was going to be alright. Husband-dear was convinced she would be fine. I was not. Unfortunately, I turned out to be right.

You see, Zoe seems to suffer from separation anxiety. You would never know it from the way she does not listen to us, will get mad at us, and destroys our favorite possessions at will, but apparently she is overattached to her humans. And this means she will bring the house down if mom and dad are gone.

We decided to board Zoe with Ruth, her trainer from PetSmart. Ruth has six other dogs, and a yard full of doggy friendly toys, a digging put, and an agility garden. Zoe adores Ruth, and so we thought it was going to be just fine. And it was. Until Ruth tried to get Zoe to eat or sleep, because our little pooch refused to do either. And when baby ain't sleeping, ain't nobody sleeping. Our little black devil howled and whined through both nights, keeping everyone in Ruth's house (and probably those living within a few miles of her too) wide awake. Nothing could get her to settle down, no treats, no cuddling, nothing.

So when we came to pick Zoe up last night, we were met by a red-rimmed Ruth and a very tired Zoe, who, in spite of her fatigue, still managed to very clearly convey her anger at us by completely ignoring both mommy and daddy. She spent all of last night half-dead to the world, following us all around the house on wobbly legs, and flopping down wherever we were. We thought she was fine this morning, until she refused to look at us when we left. Zoe doesn't just have separation anxiety, she also has quite a temper.

Now we're confronted with the problem of what to do when we leave town next time. Something tells me Ruth won't be boarding our little dogg-dog anytime soon, and to be honest, I'm not sure who will. And how do you get a dog to get over their separation anxiety? Is there such thing as doggy-therapy? Or doggy-medication? Or perhaps doggy-hypnosis? Who knew that dogs could have psychological issues anyway?

Let's start by seeing when our little princess will acknowledge our presence again. Then we'll take it from there.

Ski ropes

"Ski ropes on Tuesday"

While I'm waiting for students to show up for their advisement appointments, I thought I would tell you about the confusion that announcement at the top of this blog caused in my little head this morning that eventually led to the conclusion that I am an ethnocentric European.

One thing I love about this country is that there is always so much to read by the side of the road. Of course, the billboards are hideous, but don't you just love how signs like "We're nuts! All peanuts half off!" or "Come to the best soft hands spa in Georgia" send your mind on a long journey of free-association-for-morons that can last for miles? As someone who, due to long periods without books, or furniture, or anything to do, has read every single manual in her house at least once, I can tell that I absolutely love it. I love reading about the homemade Belgian waffles offered by the Hampton Inn on my way to work. I love reading about the cheap tickets to Disney that I can apparently by right next to that same hotel, and I even like comparing different church signs from day to day as my daily inspiration. Today one of those signs read; "In times of need, ask for help", and you know, I really liked that, I mean, isn't it true when you think about it? So, here is my plea: will someone please help me grade 30 research papers and 90 finals next week? Thanks.

Anyway, the sign about the ski ropes was on a part of my drive that has little in terms of roadside reading material, so it immediately caught my eye. Especially since I could not for the life of me figure out why a) someone would need a rope while skiing, and b) why someone would be announcing the sale of ski accessories in a part of the world that never sees snow. As I was driving along the highway, I thought of all the different things you could do while skiing that would require a rope. When I couldn't think of any, I started wonder how maybe southerners would use the word "ski" to mean something else. Something long and skinny; maybe they were talking about guns? Or maybe some type of fried food? And then when I crossed a lake, my little ethnocentric mind suddenly saw the light. Not snow skiing, but waterskiing! And of course you need ropes for waterskiing. Right. So in this case, it wasn't a weird southern thing, it was all me.

And the good thing about that sign? It took me pretty much all the way to work to figure out. And if that's not 30 miles well spent, than I don't know what is.

Furlough

De kogel is eindelijk door de kerk: we worden volgend jaar ge-"furloughed". Voor diegene die het Amerikaanse nieuws niet obsessief volgen; een furlough betekent dat medewerkers voor een bepaalde aantal uren of dagen per jaar ontslagen worden. In ons geval betekent het dat de universiteit op een aantal vrijdagen dicht zal gaan, en de medewerkers voor die dagen niet betaald zullen worden.

Ook al zou de titel van dit blog anders doen denken, ik kan me er niet heel erg druk om maken. Nog niet in ieder geval. Vooral omdat het nog helemaal niet zeker is dat het ook daadwerkelijk door gaat. De board of regents weet natuurlijk niet of ze dit jaar misschien toch nog die pot met goud aan het einde van de regenboog gaan vinden, of dat het state government misschien toch gaat inzien dat eindeloos bezuinigen op onderwijs misschien wel eens de reden zou kunnen zijn dat Georgia landelijk op de 48e plaats staat in rekenen en taal, en dus houden ze nog even een slag om de arm. En aangezien ik er zelf toch niets aan kan veranderen, geloof ik in dit geval even heilig in het "eerst zien dan geloven principe". Ten slotte is een paar dagen onbetaald moeten werken, want daar komt het voor het wetenschappelijk personeel toch op neer, minder erg dan helemaal geen werk hebben.

Op dit moment is het enige probleem dat ik heb met het hele furlough gebeuren dat het hele rooster van de universiteit op zijn kop staat, en daardoor mijn hele rooster ook. En als ik ergens niet tegen kan, naast mensen die twee parkeerplaatsen in beslag nemen, dan is het wel wanneer mijn planning onderuit gaat omdat iemand anders iets niet goed doet. Hoe komt dit zo? Het is eigenlijk heel simpel. Omdat vrijdag collegevrij moet blijven, moest het hele rooster voor het herfst semester omgegooid worden. Nu is dat natuurlijk niet zo heel eenvoudig met tientallen departments en honderden colleges, maar voor onze universiteit lijkt het wel een bijzonder lastige uitdaging. De registrar's office is er al weken mee bezig. Ten minste, dat denk ik, maar heel zeker weet ik het niet, want feit is dat het rooster nog steeds niet af is. Maar ondertussen is de advisement periode al drie keer verschoven, en staat deze nu gepland voor morgen en Donderdag. Dus in plaats van twee weken in begin April, hebben we nu twee dagen om er zestig studenten per adviser door heen te jassen. Twee dagen. En er is ondertussen nog steeds geen rooster beschikbaar. Volgende week zijn finals, waar we overigens ook nog geen rooster van hebben, want ja, de registrar heeft het te druk gehad met het rooster van het herfst semester, maar als de finals volgende week zijn, dan betekent dat dat het deze week de week is van de finals voor de afstuderende studenten, de presentaties van de portfolios, de verdediging van alle afstudeerprojecten, en nu dus ook van het doorspreken van de roosters van zestig studenten. Zonder rooster. Tel daarbij op dat mijn online classes volgende week woensdag echt online moeten staan, en je raadt het al. Ik ben helemaal klaar voor die furloughs van volgend jaar. Eindelijk rust.

Almost-birthday

Today is my almost-birthday. That's because tomorrow is my birthday. And no, I'm not writing this just to remind you all to wish me a happy birthday tomorrow. I have far too many male genes for that, and will thus do that in a very direct and masculine manner at the end of this post. No, I wanted to just very briefly, since I told husband-dear I would only be up here for an hour tops, recording some podcasts for my online class, so very quickly touch on how much I like American birthdays.

First, there is no need to count out how many people are coming, set up an equal number of chairs, cups and saucers, pie-plates, and little snacks like the ubiquitous pickle rolled in a slice of ham. Instead, you tell one friend you would love to go to Meldino's and sing Karaoke with all your friends, and that friend, without you ever asking, immediately emails all of your mutual friends with the quick message that if they're cool, that's where they'll be on Saturday night. And before you know it, everyone you have ever had fun with, is talking about going out and seeing you on your birthday. And the cool thing? You know for a fact that they're not coming just for the free food, since it's a) at a restaurant, and b) there is no stingy Dutch-ish tradition that dictates that the birthday girl (or boy) has to pay for everyone's drinks and snacks, which c) must mean they like you! They really really like you!

Living really far away, although it does mean you miss out on seeing your family, also means that some people go out of their way to make you have a wonderful day nonetheless. When another friend heard it was my birthday, and I would probably have to work at least a little in the afternoon, she worked out a little plan, and then informed me that I had better be ready to be picked up at 10:45 on Saturday morning, because she was going to take care of me. And also; don't underestimate the mystery of receiving packages and boxes, some weeks in advance, that you can't touch, open, or even look at until the big day arrives.

And then of course there is the American rule, one that at least seems to apply to our family, that when it's your birthday, you get to be a kid again. Last year we really proved how true that was when husband-dear rented a bouncy castle for me. Since we can't go nuts every year, there will not be any bouncy castles this time around, however, I did get to tell him what kind of cake I wanted. After years of having simple Dutch cakes, I am now truly making up for what I lacked; I ordered a pink princess cake. Or, to show that I'm not entirely unreasonable, a green Tinkerbell cake. Or an angel cake. But something girlie anyway. With balloons. Admittedly, husband-dear did roll his eyes, but I know he'll come through.

So, it's official, I am now excited for my birthday. "Nog maar een nachtje slapen!"


Oh yeah, and don't forget: tomorrow is the day dude. If you bring the beer, I'll bring the party. Oh wait. That was a little too masculine. And I don't even like beer. How about this then: If you bring the party, I'll make the martinis?

The name game

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By another name would smell as sweet."
Juliet ~ Romeo and Juliet


I like to make my students angry. Not in a "let's lose our temper and key our teacher's car" way, but a more controlled and constructive manner. I want my students to get worked up about injustice and unfairness, to get upset about things like racism and the glass ceiling, and use their anger to think of ways they can better society.

You would think that teaching at an HBCU in the deep south, this would be relatively easy. Confederate flags, blatant use of the n-word, a state legislature that refuses to apologize for slavery, yet adopts April as southern independence month, bumper stickers embracing confederate ideology, the tendency to call Black men "boy" and white women " honey", these are just a few of the things that make my toes curl. Alas. my students apparently seem to disagree. No matter how worked up I get in class (and trust me, one of these days I will give myself an aneurysm), my students still seem more preoccupied with the usual college concerns: who is dating whom, who made it into which sorority, where the next big party/probate/step/screening is, and of course who said what to whom and why.

But today, I finally got one of my students to get mad. In my ten o'clock class, we were talking about the representation of African Americans in the news, and how the presence of African American anchors does not always have to indicate that society is moving ahead in getting rid of its racist stereotypes. One of my students shared a story about an African American news anchor with whom she interned. This anchor, in order to make it in a larger market, had gotten rid of her afro, had started wearing business suits, and had changed her name to something more "generic". Most of the students nodded in understanding, but a little cluster up front seemed last than happy.

I asked the students what was going on, and one male student, let's call him Brendan, spoke up; "That is absolutely ridiculous. You should be able to be who you are. If they don't like your name, screw them, you don't want to work for them!"
This led to a fierce debate, with one half of the class claiming you had to pay the bills somehow, and the other half claiming that it didn't matter what your name was when you made it big, as long as you were the Black man or woman who did.
But Brendan was not to be dissuaded; "But it does matter! How many white people go around changing their names?!"
One girl spoke up, "But that's not the point. White names are the standard in the industry. If you have some weird name, everyone is going to think you're ghetto or something. If changing my name is going to make it easier for me to get a job, then so be it. You have to face reality you know. You can't live in some fantasy world where everyone is going to have equal chances."
Sadly, that hit home with most of the class. However, Brendan had one last arrow on his bow; "Well, you know what, where I'm going to go, it's going to be like this. You don't know how to spell my name? That's OK, it's B-R-E-N-D-A-N, and now please get me some coffee."

Sugar and cream?

Food-deprived

I did not get to eat dinner last night, and it's all our local school system's fault. Well, and the local police too. And a few idiot drivers. And people with way too many choices. And possibly even the people at Subway. And probably husband-dear's too. And since I hate making people feel left out once I start shifting blame, I'll just go ahead and say that it's my students' fault too. Oh and Steve. Of course. Like the woman in Margeritaville, he's always to blame.

So what happened?

Yesterday evening was going to be a "take care of yourself" kind of evening. I had to work late (hence blaming the students and Steve), and husband-dear had to go to a meeting on base. So each of us was going to fix our own dinner, which in my case meant picking something up on my way home. Sounds easy enough. You would think that in a society as geared towards convenience as this one is, it would have been a piece of cake. Think again.

The trouble started at around 7pm last night, when I found myself on the highway into town, only to come to a dead stop in the middle of an intersection, where a police officer in a neon green vest was directing all traffic away from the direction I needed to go. I could see flashing lights over the hill, and assumed someone had finally done what we have been predicting for years, and pulled out of one of the subdivisions along that road without looking while doing 35 mph and encountered someone coming down the hill doing 65mph.
Now in Holland, people would have stepped up to the police officer, asked him what was going on, and asked him how to get to where they were going. But here in Georgia, police officers are not that service-oriented. In fact, that one time I spun off the road, I debated calling the police for help in getting back on the road, and husband-dear all but forbade me from doing so, arguing that all they would do was yell at me for losing control of my car, give me a fine, and then charge me for pulling me back on the road. And when I saw a car in front of me pull up to the police officer, and get yelled at so loudly I could hear it over my car radio, I knew I had better just move on.
But just "moving on" is never that simple in our town. Without any planning or zoning committee, our town has but a few roads that actually go somewhere. Most roads meander through subdivisions, past gas stations and come to abrupt halts just when you can see the place you need to be at. So anytime you can't take one road into town, you may find yourself driving anywhere from five to ten miles to get to where you wanted to be. And that was the case this time as well. It's actually a good thing I've taken up roadbiking, because five months ago I would have had to drive ten miles into the next town before I would have known where to turn. But the sun was shining and it was pretty out, so the fact that it took me a good fifteen minutes to turn into the main road, didn't deter me too much. Yet.

And that's where problem number two hit. Once I pulled on to the main road, I noticed that all the drive-throughs were lined with cars. The Sonic did not have one single empty spot, the Burger King parking lot was full, and even the gas station was buzzing. The overflowing parking lot at the local high school explained the craziness. Fortunately, I was in a healthy mood, and so decided to stop at Subway. For some unfathomable reason I can't remember now, I assumed that fewer people would chose the healthy option. Well, the place wasn't as crowded as everything else around it. When I came in, there were three people in line, and I settled into a content patient wait, confident that I would have food in my hand in a few minutes.

And instantly I was confronted with problem number three. I had assumed that the four sandwiches on the counter for the three people waiting, but they were not. They were for the one lady first in line. She was placing an enormous order, which involved things like toasted sandwiches, non-toasted flatbreads, pizza's, sides, drinks, and whatever else Subway had to offer. And that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that this lady, who, may the record show, was wearing a badge that showed her to be an English teacher at our local high school, had minute orders for what needed to go on each sandwich. Anyone who has ever stood behind one these incredibly controlling customers knows exactly what I'm talking about
"Yeah, so that one needs to be half plain, no cheese, well, actually, American. But just one slice. Yeah, right there. Thanks. And no salt. Only a little salt on the BLT. Do you have fat-free honey-mustard? You do? Great, I would like half of that and half of dribbly dressing number three on the Cold Cut Combo, and then just a sprinkling of lettuce. Just a little bit. Yeah, just a little. That's too much. Yeah right there. Onions? Yes, but only on the Turkey. In fact, add peppers to that one too. And pickles. But just a little. Very light. Light, light, light, light, light."

For those of you who may be unaware of my past, I have spent countless hours working behind the counter of such wonderful food establishments as McDonald's, the local deli, and cafeterias. And let me let you in on a little secret; we don't like customers like that. We really don't. I can tell you that whenever you talk to us like that, you are really just pissing us off. Really badly. It's fine if you want to fine-tune your order, but please keep in mind that it is just a sandwich, and not the next cure for cancer. On top of that, we know what "a little" means, we did go to school, you do not have to keep using synonyms to make your point.

But the lady, oblivious to my dark thoughts, droned on, and on, and on. When she was done, I thanked the heavens for giving me patience, and was convinced I was going to eat fairly soon now. And wrong again. The two people in front me not only wore the same type of badge as pickle-lady, they also had two equally huge orders, and a similar desire to minutely choreograph the looks and layout of each piece of food.

And so I left. Call me a loser for not sticking it out, but I knew that if I had stayed, this evil person inside of me called "auntie sarcasm" would have very quickly taken over, and people here in Georgia generally don't like her very much. So I took myself and my auntie out of there and drove home. Where I had grapes and chips for dinner, and pouted. Next time, I'm ordering in.

Roadbiking 101

Ten things I learned while riding my roadbike along the Georgia roads:

1. If you are a) a woman, b) breathing, and c) wearing spandex, you will be honked at. You might as well take it as a compliment, because they will not stop. Unfortunately, the people honking at you will most likely be a) twice your age, or b) half your age.

2. If bugs fly into your eyes and mouth while running, they will also do so while biking, only at a much higher speed. Wear goggles, keep your mouth closed, and since there is no avoiding the inevitable (think of it as extra fiber!) bring lots of water to swallow some of the bigger ones down.

3. Just because road rules clearly state that motorists must "share the road", doesn't mean that people will. You will not only be run off the road, you will be honked at, yelled at, cussed out, and receive the finger every once in a while. And yes, this happens even when you're right on the edge of the road. Bring your cellphone, take down tag numbers, and pray you don't end up like a friend of ours who had a beer bottle thrown at him from a moving car.

4. You will get sunburned. Wear sunscreen. And lots of it. Unless, of course, you like a farmer's tan.

5. Bugs like people and bugs like sweat. If you are a person riding at a decent speed, you may also want to put on bugspray. Unless you want to end up like husband-dear, who today got to share his spandex with a winged ant.

6. Dogs will chase you. Even the tiniest, sweetest dogs will suddenly turn into a Mr. Hyde, run out in the road and seemingly try to get stuck in between your spokes. Yelling at them does not help, and generally, they only view this as an invitation to nip at your ankles. Yelling at their owners, who in a lot of cases, are standing on their front porches, observing the whole spectacle, does no good either, unless you count alleviating your frustration as something good. The best solution, and as an animal lover, this breaks my heart, honestly, is to speed up and make it seem like you're trying to run over said dog. It sounds horrible, and it is. But picture flying butt over teakettle over the handlebars of your bike while doing 35mph. Right. And the thing is, it tends to work: the dogs will always scamper out of the way.

7. What comes down, must go up. Don't ever get excited over long downhills. You will have to ride up them too.

8. Don't ever assume people have seen you. Even if they have looked your way twice. Even if you're wearing enough neon to help land planes. Even if you're standing right in front of them at a stop sign. Don't ever assume people have noticed you. Because they don't. They will have you an inch from their fender before they register your presence. At which point, of course, whatever was about to go wrong is completely your fault. Bicycling is for the gym, not outdoors. Everyone knows that.

9. When approaching a pedestrian on a sidewalk, always assume they are going to cross right in front of you. Even if they're getting their mail, or talking to a neighbor, or not even looking out into the road. The moment a cyclist rounds the corner, every single pedestrian in Georgia gets the urge to cross the road. Be prepared for a sudden stop.

10. Bring lots and lots of water. This is Georgia, you will need it.

Have fun!

...........

In order for me to blog, I rely on some sort of quiet time to get my thoughts together. Generally, I have a million ideas floating around in my head, and then while I'm driving to work, and after I've become sick and tired of NPR, one of those thoughts crystallizes into a blog. I start seeing paragraphs, anecdotes, and quotes. Every once in a while, like this past Tuesday, I'll just sit down and pour out what's inside my head, but most of the time it takes a little while longer than that. So I spend a few moments on my morning commute thinking it all over, and then when I get to work, I'm ready to splash it all on my screen.

However, recently, work has been getting in the way of putting all these wonderful and enlightened ideas into words. Like this blog, for instance. Last night, as I was putting laundry away, I started to consider American drawers and cupboards as compared to Dutch drawers and cupboards. I had the whole concept all outlined in my head. I was going to talk about our pantry, my mom's pans, and a friend's sewing room, and somehow convince you that Americans care less about well-organized storage space. But once I arrived in my office, all these interesting anthropological insights were immediately pushed to the back of my mind as I was faced with the order of the day. And today's order is what I really want to share with you. I promise I will talk about cupboards and drawers at some other point in time.

You see, this morning we buried a much-esteemed co-worker who died of Leukemia last Friday. His name was Charles, he was barely 60 years old, and he was the chair who hired me on a temporary contract almost two years ago. This man was more than my boss. He was the man who saved me from a life of a stay-at-home military spouse by responding to my inquiry with the following words; "The opening you applied for has already been filled, but a faculty member just quit yesterday. Can you start work next week?". The man saved my life. And my husband's probably.

Charles was what my kids would call "a cool dude". He was stoic, never got too worked up about anything, didn't believe in bureaucracy, and always had his faculty's back. When he told us he was diagnosed with Leukemia last summer, we could not believe anything but that he would pull through. Then at last December's commencement, he told me he had been told the doctors could do little for him, but search for a bone marrow donor. Because of a lack of African American bone marrow donors, his options were limited. And so Charles passed away.

His funeral service was in an African American baptist church. Having never been to an African American funeral, I was curious to see if it would be any different from the standard white American church funeral, with lace handkerchiefs pressed to red-rimmed eyes, a wheezing organ, a choir consisting of old ladies, and at least some sort of rendition of "A mighty Fortress is our God". And my goodness, it was different. And I am going to go out on a limb here, and say that I liked it better. The Gospel choir sang slow, almost dragging songs that just cut right through you, the higher tones sometimes were so close to wailing, it gave me goosebumps. Everyone walked by the open casket, and everyone was given the opportunity to say goodbye. And people cried. They didn't sit up straight in their pews, holding it all in, they let it out. People around me were humming along with the songs, praying out loud, and crying out "Amen" when they felt the need. At one point during a song, we could even hear the widow crying out in her grief. It was heart-wrenching, yet cathartic at the same time. Why pretend everything is OK when it's clearly not? At least this way Charles, had he been watching, knows that he is truly missed.

So today has been an off-day. It's hard to get back to work when you've just said goodbye to someone you know you will miss sorely. It's even harder to blog about closets and drawers when all you can think about is someone's widow. So I did what I do every once a while, I just let it out for you to chew on. And to top it all off, I really did not know what to do for a title. Sometimes silence just says it all.

Ik ben er niet

Ik ben er niet.

Nou ja, ik ben er natuurlijk wel, maar ik zit verstopt in mijn kantoor, met mijn deur dicht en mijn telefoon uit. Als mensen aankloppen hou ik lekker mijn mond, en mijn mail check ik alleen als ik zin heb.
Er is niks mis hoor. Ik heb geen zenuwinzinking, dipje, of andere nare levenservaring. Ik heb het gewoon echt. heel. erg. druk. Op zich ook niet echt een fijne ervaring, maar eentje die te overkomen is. En als je het zo druk hebt als ik, en je hebt om de haverklap studenten en collega's voor je deur staan die antwoord willen op vragen als: Wil je koffie? Heb je koffie? Heb je al tijd gehad om naar mijn voorstel te kijken? Wat vind jij van de curriculum voorstellen? Heb je mijn mail al gezien? Mag ik mijn paper vijf uur later inleveren? Wanneer heb jij tijd voor een vergadering? Ik ben veel te laat begonnen, wat moet ik nu doen? Dan krijg je je werk dus nooit af.
Niet dat ik mijn werk ooit af ga krijgen. Die illusie heb ik losgelaten. Maar het zou fijn zijn als ik in ieder geval op schema liep in het achterlopen.
En eigenlijk is dit allemaal mijn eigen schuld. Nee, niet omdat ik nou perse deze baan wilde (ook al telt dat wel een beetje mee), maar omdat ik me weer voor iets nieuws heb opgegeven. Werk-gerelateerd, maar wel weer iets nieuws. Waarom? Volgens mij had het iets te maken met vooruitgang willen boeken in mijn carriere. Maar nu ben ik eerder geneigd te denken dat het komt omdat ik me gewoon verveel ofzo.
Twee maanden terug kregen alle medewerkers een oproep om zich aan te melden voor ons "online college". We moesten cursussen opgegeven die we wel online zouden willen geven. Denkende aan mijn enorme reistijd, en een toekomst van thuiswerken in pyjama, gaf ik twee van mijn cursussen op. Twee maanden lang heb ik niks gehoord, en ik was allang overtuigd dat mijn cursussen het niet gered hadden. Welnee! Ze zijn gewoon allebei goedgekeurd. Asjemenou. En eventjes leek het allemaal rozegeur en manenschijn; er zou extra salaris tegenoverstaan, er zou professionele begeleiding aangeboden worden, en ik zag het helemaal zitten.
Maar ja. Toen hoorde ik dat de cursussen van de zomer gegeven moeten worden. En dat het opnemen van podcasts voor elk college niet genoeg is. Nee joh. De college aantekeningen moeten ook online, en deze moeten natuurlijk netjes en duidelijk zijn, en volledig van referenties voorzien worden. Juist. Dus ik moet mijn boekenkast induiken om bij elk feitje te kijken waar dat ook al weer vandaan kwam. Was het Conboy? Of toch McQuail? Of misschien wel de oude editie van McQuail? Elk college moet afgesloten worden met een quiz, een discussion assignment, en een aantal graded assignments. En dit moet allemaal voor 11 mei online staan.
Nee, ik word niet gek. Nog niet. Ik vertel mezelf gewoon dat mijn gebroken teen dus niet voor niets was. Al die tijd die ik normaal aan het hardlopen was, kan ik nu besteden aan mijn werk. Fijn.

Er klopt iemand. Ik ben er niet hoor. Echt niet.

Le weekend

Friday -

Graded papers for about six hours, did laundry in between, went for a 750m swim, a nine-mile bike ride, took the family out to dinner, and ran some errands

Saturday -

Cleaned the master bathroom, dusted and vacuumed the master bedroom and closets, tried to fix the blinds in said bedroom, cleaned the guinneapig cage, swept and mopped the kitchen floor, helped husband-dear trim the bushes outside, cleaned the grill, almost had a heart attack when found a letter in the mail from the IRS, relaxed when we discovered it was telling us we were going to get a refund, scrubbed the front and back porch, cleaned every single column of both porches with a wet rag, cleaned the arbordrafts around our house, recorded audio for my new online class for about two hours, went for a 27 mile bike ride with some crazy semi-pros who rode like bats out of hell, showered, ate dinner, took the kids to the mall and Walmart, came home and graded some more papers.

Sunday -

Did weight lift routine, biked 15 miles, did laundry, changed sheets on bed, worked on course objectives for online classes, tried to fix broken blinds in son's room, failed, decided we need new blinds all around the house, graded even more papers, helped fixed dinner, went to church early to accompany one of the musicians onto base, helped set up for the service, sat through said service, helped clean up the service, packed up for work, realized it is now 8:25pm and I have less than ten hours until my new work week starts.

Would it be fair to say that I am not quite ready for the weeked to end yet?

Southern Follies

I don't like April Fool's jokes. Never have and never will. Call me boring, but pranks just don't do anything for me. Well, that's not entirely true, because sometimes they do. When I was a kid I liked to ring people's doorbells and run away as much as the next kid (that is until my mom found out and gave me a talking to). But not when there's a whole day dedicated to them. Anytime something is institutionalized, it kind of takes the fun out of it, and that goes for April Fool's day too. For me anyway. I mean, is it normal to be listening to the news, and with every out-of-the-ordinary news item, wonder if it's a joke or not? So anyway, I was glad when April 1st came and went without any sort of pranks directed at me. But when I read a local news update this morning, all I found myself thinking was that this had better be another silly April Fool's prank.

Apparently, our state government, in all its glorious wisdom, has decided that with all the different special history months, such as the Black history month, floating around, it was high time that southern beliefs and ideas were given a similar amount of appreciation. And so it has transpired that the Georgia state government has decreed April to be the Confederate history appreciation month.

This is what MSNBC had to say about it:

A panel of Georgia lawmakers signed off Thursday on a plan to create a Confederate heritage month, even as legislative leaders reacted coolly to a push to apologize for the state's role in slavery.

Sen. Jeff Mullis' bill would dub April as Confederate History and Heritage Month to honor the memory of the Confederacy and "all those millions of its citizens of various races and ethnic groups and religions who contributed in sundry and myriad ways to the cause of Southern Independence."

The unanimous vote by the Senate Rules committee — which sent the plan on to the full Senate for consideration — comes days after black lawmakers announced plans to ask the state to officially apologize for its role in slavery and segregation-era laws.

....

Mullis, a Republican, said his bill was not a response to the slavery-apology movement.

"I'm from Chickamauga, so it seemed pretty appropriate for me to do something to commemorate the War Between the States," Mullis said. His family owned land at the site of the Battle of Chickamauga, the Civil War's second-bloodiest battle and the South's last major victory.

Mullis has supported efforts to create a Civil Rights History Month in Georgia but opposes a slavery apology. "If I had done something personally, yes, I would apologize," he said.

Without wanting to go into the diatribe about the evils of such a plan, all I can really do is sigh and shake my head. Learning about the history of anything is great, and we really should make more of an effort to get people interested in our past, but why focus on something that you know is going to go snafu within minutes? First of all, why use the word "confederacy" when that word is generally, well at least among 90% of the population, associated with racism, segregation, and white supremacy? And second, the reason there is a Black history month, and an Asian Pacific American heritage month is because groups such as those have generally long been ignored and discriminated against, something that can't really be claimed for southern white people.

And why on earth would legislators claim this month is going to focus on the contributions of all ethnic groups to southern independence? For starters, to paraphrase the movie "Night at the Museum", south, I'm sorry, but you lost. There was, is, and probably never will be, southern independence. And second, which other ethnic groups, besides white people, did they have in mind? The ones the south was trying to keep enslaved through their fight for independence? I'm not quite sure. Whatever it is, I can pretty much guarantee that the thousands of African American students and employees at my school will not be jumping into this celebration.

So please tell me this is an April Fool's joke. Please.

En het regent...

…nog steeds.

Het regent nu al dagen. Als ik mijn blog van 16 Maart moet geloven dan regent het eigenlijk al twee weken. En niet van die Nederlandse miezer regen, nee, van die harde plensbuien die je binnen enkele seconden volledig doorweken. Lake Lanier vlakbij Atlanta, dat de laatste paar jaar bijna tien meter te laag stond, is al bijna weer terug op peil, de lokale rivieren en meren dreigen te overstromen, en de riolering kan het al lang niet meer aan. Het enige lichtpuntje dat ik zie is dat gisteren manlief, in zwembroek en slippers, de fertilizer zo op het gras kon strooien, en niet de sprinklers aan hoefde te zetten om het in te laten weken. Na dit karweitje in de stromende regen geklaard te hebben kwam manlief grijnzend, en doorweekt (vandaar ook de zwembroek), weer naar binnen, want we hadden zo toch zeker wel een paar dollar op onze waterrekening bespaart.

Ik moet toegeven dat de dankbaarheid van een paar weken geleden nu bijna volledig is omgeslagen in een lichte sikkeneurigheid. Niet alleen wil ik de zon weer terug, maar ook heb ik wel genoeg van de hele Georgia-regen-ervaring.

Zo hebben wij bijvoorbeeld geen bijkeuken. Als je via de voordeur binnenkomt, val je zo de woonkamer in. Kom je vanuit de achtertuin? Dan sta je in de keuken. En voor wie via de garage binnenkomt, die moet door onze laundry room. Twee weken regen, een hond, twee jongens, en een man die niet altijd even oplettend is, en je begrijpt het meteen; ik heb de laatste twee weken voornamelijk voorovergebogen met een dweil in mijn handen gestaan. Het enige positieve wat ik geleerd heb is dat erg blij ben met onze donkere houten vloer, want daar zie je de beruchte Georgia red clay ten minste niet op.

En wat dacht je van studenten die niet naar college komen omdat het regent? Voor een Nederlander zoals ik die, ongeacht het weer, naar de universiteit kwam fietsen is dit totaal onbegrijpelijk. De meeste studenten hier wonen op de campus, en hoeven dus alleen maar een paar honderd meter naar het leslokaal te komen lopen. Maar als het hard regent, dan mag je blij zijn als de helft van je studenten komt opdagen. Mijn collega’s kijken er niet van op, want, zoals eentje gisteren zei, “het regent ook wel erg hard hoor”. Maar ik kan die Nederlandse kijk blijkbaar maar heel slecht van me afschudden. Als het regent, dan doe je een regenbroek aan, je doet je capouchon op, en je hoopt dat je geen grote plassen in combinatie van vrachtauto’s tegenkomt. Niet in Georgia. Daar bellen de studenten je na het college gewoon op om te vragen wat ze gemist hebben en wanneer ze langs mogen komen om het met je door te spreken.

Maar het meest vervelende aan dit weer is toch wel het feit dat regen in Georgia nooit alleen regen is. In Amerika is alles groter, en dus ook het weer. En daarom gaat regen hier bijna altijd gepaard met onweer en tornadoes. En wederom heb ik het niet over Nederlands onweer, maar over donderklappen die je auto doen trillen en bliksemschichten die de hele hemel verlichten. Onweer dat bij ons van het weekend bijna een hele dag en nacht heeft voortgeduurd. En aangezien het in Georgia bijna altijd warm is, en warmte en vochtigheid klaarblijkerlijk de ideale condities zijn voor tornadoes, heb je die er ook nog eens bij. Alsof de eeuwige regen nog niet genoeg was. Gisteren was het werkelijk feest. Terwijl ik naar huis reed onderbrak de National Weather Service ongeveer om de vijf minuten de muziek op de radio met weer een “severe weather warning”, waar in anderhalf uur tijd ook nog eens drie tornado warnings voorbij fietsten. De aankondigen gaan zoiets als; “The national doppler radar has shown a tornado currently in Donaldsonville, moving east through Worth county at a speed of 45 mph.” Voor de mensen in Worth county is dat vast heel duidelijk, maar voor een automobilist als ik, die de county bordjes alleen in een flits voorbij ziet komen is het eerder een reden om me acuut enorm druk te gaan zitten maken. Kom ik door die county? Ben ik er al doorheen gekomen? En hoe loopt deze weg? Het heet “north”, maar volgens mij gaat hij ook een beetje oostwaarts. Zie ik daar een tornado? Het toppunt was gisteren toen de service aankondigde dat er een tornado gesignaleerd was op de weg waar ik op dat moment reed. Alleen gaven ze niet aan waar op die weg de tornado op dat moment was. Als je bedenkt dat deze weg zeker 50 mijl lang is, begrijp je dat ik zeker tien minuten lang achter elke bocht een tornado zag.

En voor het weekend hebben ze weer 30 centimeter regen voorspeld. In plaats van een zwembad, denk ik dat ik maar eens aan die ark ga beginnen.